


If it feels good, tastes good/It must be mine

by Neyiea



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Blood As Lube, Bottom Jerome, Bottoming from the Top, Canon-Typical Violence, Coercion, Episode: s03e14 The Gentle Art of Making Enemies, Jerome is his own warning, Knifeplay, M/M, Spit As Lube, Threats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:22:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25905040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neyiea/pseuds/Neyiea
Summary: Bruce's bid for more time ends up getting him some one-on-one attention.
Relationships: Jerome Valeska/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 17
Kudos: 111





	If it feels good, tastes good/It must be mine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [miIkobitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/miIkobitch/gifts).



> Welcome to the end of eras  
> Ice has melted back to life  
> Done my time and served my sentence  
> Dress me up and watch me die  
> If it feels good, tastes good  
> It must be mine  
> Dynasty decapitated  
> You just might see a ghost tonight
> 
> Emperor's New Clothes - Panic! At The Disco

“Look, I know you’re just trying to buy time, so you can escape.”

Bruce Wayne has gotten bigger.

Bruce Wayne has gotten _prettier._

“But your point is still valid.”

Looking at him makes Jerome feel like doing something rash; destroy a precious work of art, rip the pages from a first edition, throw sentimental keepsakes into the fire just to watch them burn. Looking at him—at his furious eyes and his stubborn expression and the planes of his face highlighted by firelight—makes him want something else, too. It gives him an itch to scratch. An impulse to give into. 

He stares into Bruce’s eyes and Bruce stares right back in a way that sparks something very hot and very familiar under Jerome’s skin. He’s fearless and stone-faced even with death looming imminently over his shoulder, and Jerome wants to make his composure shatter into a million splintered pieces and watch him as he falls apart. 

He’s got time. This is his night. He can do anything he wants. He can have anything he wants.

Anyone he wants, even. 

Any way he wants.

“You wanna buy time,” he intones with a knowing look. “I’ll give you time. I’ll even give you a little bit of one-on-one.” His knife taps against Bruce’s throat, his other hand settles upon his cheek in a way that could almost be thought of as gentle. Bruce’s lips press into a thin line. Bruce’s eyes burn brighter than the fire. Jerome is distantly kind of enchanted by him. He hadn’t expected Bruce to still be that scared little boy in a tuxedo, but he also hadn’t pictured him as this. Jerome drags his fingers into Bruce’s hair and digs in. “Think of it as a ‘thank you’ for so bravely volunteering to be tonight’s climax.” He laughs roughly before his eyes briefly flicker away from Bruce.

“Take the butler, maybe rough him up a little, whatever, I’ve got something I want to do here. I’ll get Brucie to yell for you when I’m done.”

Bruce’s face morphs into a snarl and Jerome is sure that if it weren’t for the knife against his neck he’d be surging forward.

“Don’t worry Bruce, he’s not going to die.” Yet. “I just want to brief you on what sort of behaviour I expect of someone who’s going to be the face of my main event.”

Bruce’s eyes dart to the side. Jerome’s hand digs tighter into his hair and yanks his attention back to where it ought to be. 

“Eyes on me. You’ll find I get jealous easily,” he says as his lackies drag the butler out. It takes all three of them to do it, but eventually he’s gone and the yelling has faded, and Jerome’s fist loosens, petting at Bruce’s soft hair as if he’s a precious little pet. “You’ve got some fight in you, Bruce, I like that in a victim. It makes things more fun when people don’t just give up and take it, y’know?”

“I don’t know, actually,” Bruce bites out, pearly teeth flashing like a threat. “Is that why you want some one-on-one, to see how much ‘fight’ I have before the curtain is drawn?”

“In one way, no.” Both of his hands move to shove hard against Bruce’s chest and Bruce falls back like a domino. Jerome settles over top of him before Bruce has a chance to try and pick himself up from the floor, knife digging into his stomach through the flimsy material of his turtleneck while his other hand works at undoing one of the white belts of his outfit. “In another way, yes.”

“It seems to be an unfair fight.”

“That’s just the way life is, Bruce. But don’t worry, I don’t want to hurt you too badly before it’s time for you to die. Wounding you now will just make it all so much less dramatic later.”

“What are you planning on doing, then?”

So full of questions. Jerome rolls his eyes, more for show than out of actual annoyance. Most other people in Bruce’s position, and knowing full-well what Jerome was capable of, would be screaming right now. Bruce’s levelheadedness will just make it that much more fun to drive him into a frenzy; Jerome is looking forward to it. 

“I’m a man with needs, Bruce, one of those needs is to make pretty things like you fall apart.” He thankfully sees Bruce clench his fingers before he tries to punch, and Jerome rolls. Bruce lashes out, fists and feet and gnashing teeth, but Jerome is bigger and stronger and has been in way more fights than a billionaire baby could ever dream of. Bruce ends up flat on his back again, briefly stunned from a knock to the head, and Jerome wraps the end of the belt around one of his wrists.

“You’re a bit of a handful,” Jerome says, masking excitement with nonchalance. He loops the belt around the leg of the very sturdy, very heavy looking desk, and affixes it into the latch. Bruce still has one hand free, but Jerome is optimistic in his belief that he won’t be throwing any more punches any time soon. “Try that again and I’ll have my boys cut off your butler’s face.”

Bruce yanks his trapped hand. The desk doesn’t budge.

“I would have explained more, but since you rudely interrupted me while I was answering your question I guess you’ll just have to figure it out for yourself.” He slides a little further down Bruce’s body, his knees clamping around Bruce’s hips. He pushes Bruce sweater up several inches and then drags his nails down, watching the muscles underneath the flesh clench as if bracing for an attack. “Not gonna hurt you just yet, Bruce, darlin’,” he reminds, then he cocks his head to the side before quickly amending with, “Not too much, anyway.” His knife settles against Bruce’s unprotected stomach again. “I want to have some fun with you at my special gathering before you take your final bow.”

And Jerome wants to have some fun with him now, too. 

Jerome is hungry for something that he so rarely is able to indulge in. He had a type, and even if he could get what he wanted in a purely physical sense from circus freaks or Arkham inmates or even, probably, the idiots and lunatics that had decided to worship him like a God, there just wasn’t any point in attempting if there was no spark of _attraction_ or _interest._

Jerome isn’t interested in bottoming for some uptight asshole who’ll try to take charge or some simpering fool who won’t be any fun. 

Bruce, though—with his burning eyes and his pretty face and his quick-thinking—was a promising prospect. 

Jerome wonders if this’ll be his first time.

Jerome wonders if he’s going to _cry_ from overstimulation. 

Fuck. His eyes would be even more brilliant if they were glossy with tears. 

“If you try to bite me I’ll make sure your butler gets hurt before you do,” he threatens, because Bruce seems to put more stock into the help’s safety than his own for some reason. “And I’ll make you watch it, too.”

He leans down for a kiss.

His lips come into contact with Bruce’s palm, which Bruce had haphazardly raised to settle between them. Jerome rolls his eyes again, but he smacks a kiss against the flesh all the same and watches, delighted, as Bruce’s eyes go wide. 

“You’re not great at reading context cues, are ya?” He asks, lips brushing against Bruce’s hand, not bothering to hold back his soft snickering. “What were you thinking I was leaning towards you to do? Bite your ear off?”

“Excuse me for thinking that people don’t usually kiss someone that they’re planning on killing,” Bruce retorts, all trembling fake haughtiness. His startled eyes are darting wildly over Jerome’s face, as if searching for a clue about his erratic behaviour.

“You’re excused,” Jerome graciously permits, and Bruce’s expression flickers with something like irritation before Jerome hooks his fingers into the waistband of his pants and underwear and tugs them halfway down his pretty, unmarked thighs. Bruce barely manages to stifle a shriek, likely remembering at the last second that Jerome had men waiting to hear Bruce scream as a signal to come back. “But only because you’re so cute.” A knife pressing against Bruce’s unprotected stomach, fingers lightly grazing through the small patch of hair at the base of his soft cock. Jerome watches Bruce’s face flush as he freezes, as if going completely still would make Jerome just forget the spectacular package of attractive traits that was laid out below him. “I know people who would kill for a face like yours.”

Both as some sort of twisted declaration of interest, and to have Bruce’s face added into a list, possibly even photographed before or after death to have something to keep as a trophy. Jerome’s not going to give any of _those_ psychopaths a chance to do anything, though. 

“I don’t understand,” Bruce manages, voice starting to shake. He’s so precious; Jerome kind of wants to hold him. “You’re going to kill me. Why are you—what’s going on?”

“Just because I want to kill you later doesn’t mean we can’t have some fun together before you die.” Jerome spits into his palm, and when his fingers lightly wrap around Bruce’s cock Bruce jolts, going even redder even though Jerome is barely applying pressure. Definitely his first time, Jerome mentally crows, something possessive and triumphant stirring inside of him. “Maybe I just want to pay some attention to _my favourite volunteer_.” His fingertips graze against him, more teasing at the moment than anything else, gently easing him into the touches to keep him from tensing up or panicking too much. “I did tell you to think of this as a ‘thank you’, after all.”

“What if I don’t—” Bruce’s breath catches in his throat, his cock twitches in Jerome’s loose grip. His bound hand tugs and tugs without any change, his free hand grabs tightly onto the wrist of the hand currently holding a knife against him. “—don’t want your attention?”

“Trying to reject my adoring advances? I’m hurt, Bruce.” Jerome rubs a thumb against the head of Bruce’s dick and watches, charmed, as Bruce shuts his eyes tight, his entire body going taut with effort to keep from moving into Jerome’s touch. “I thought we had something special; you and me close enough to whisper to each other and not be overheard, a lit stage, a public execution. Didn’t work out the first time but I’m sure the second time’s the charm, darlin’.” Jerome ducks down to press a kiss to Bruce’s stomach, lips grazing the skin right beside his knife, and Bruce shudders underneath him. Jerome’s eyes dart up, eagerly taking in Bruce’s completely unguarded expression. The first substantial crack in his composure, and all because of a kiss. Playing with him was going to be so much fun. “The only thing more intimate than me killing you,” he begins, lips trailing up to press another few kisses along his ribs and watching Bruce bite his lip to stifle a noise, as if the kissing was undoing him even more than Jerome’s hand. “Is going to be me riding your lap.”

Bruce’s eyes go wide again, and Jerome can understand why. There was nothing quite as heady as subverting people’s expectations. Well, maybe committing murder, actually. And fucking a really, really pretty boy. 

And Jerome gets to do all three things tonight. His second life is already starting off so much better than his first. 

“Jerome,” Bruce starts, voice all soft and hypnotizing, and, wow, is this the first time he’s said Jerome’s name? It sends pleasant little sparks down Jerome’s spine. It makes Jerome wonder how much work it’ll take until his name is the only thing that Bruce is capable of remembering. “You—you—”

“Don’t you worry about a thing, Brucie, I’ve got it all figured out.” His playful stroking of Bruce’s firming cock becomes harder, more focused, and Bruce jerks at the added pressure. “You’re way too pretty to die a virgin. I’ll punch your v-card before you go.” First, last, only. There’s something distortedly romantic about the notion, and Jerome doesn’t resist the urge to lean in for a kiss again.

This time Bruce doesn’t have a hand free to come up between them.

Bruce’s eyes don’t fall shut so he stares up at Jerome as their lips brush together, his hand on Jerome’s wrist going even tighter. Jerome eases him into kissing just like he’d eased him into the handjob, certain that going too fast would just make him tense and angry and decidedly not-excited, and Bruce kind of has to be having a good time for Jerome to be able to ride him. The first several kisses are gentle and chaste, maybe something that Bruce has experienced before, and Jerome lets his own eyes fall shut as he allows himself to enjoy the softer contact until he feels, finally, Bruce’s lips move a little underneath his own. Then he starts to deepen the kisses; licking against Bruce’s mouth, nipping at his bottom lip, dragging his tongue against the front of Bruce’s teeth. Below him Bruce starts to shake, his grip on Jerome’s wrist loosens, and when Jerome’s eyes crack open he sees that Bruce’s lashes are finally resting against his flushed cheeks. He drags his tongue against Bruce’s teeth again, flicking up to glide against the inside of his lip, and Bruce makes a high, shaky sound before his hand finally disengages from around Jerome’s wrist to timidly thread into red hair. 

Kissing him really _did_ get to him even more than touching his dick. Jerome files that away in the back of his mind, once again finding himself more captivated than he thought he would be. He presses his tongue between Bruce’s lips a third time and this time Bruce’s teeth part, too, and his fingers flex in Jerome’s hair as Jerome eagerly delves into his mouth.

He sets aside the knife and he unwraps his fingers from around Bruce’s cock. Bruce hardly even seems to notice, too busy kissing him back and making needy, breathy noises against Jerome’s mouth. Jerome entertains thoughts of kissing him everywhere—just to see which places are the most sensitive, just to see if anything else got to Bruce as much as kissing him on the mouth obviously did—as he undoes his own pants and pushes everything down, aching cock finally free. He slips a hand under the small of Bruce’s back and lets the wet head of his cock drag against Bruce’s hip. Bruce gasps like he’s shocked; like he can’t believe that kissing and touching him has been enough for Jerome to get hard. 

First, last, only, rings in Jerome’s head again, chiming like a bell.

Fuck, Jerome is so fucking happy that he thought of this. He sucks Bruce’s tongue into his mouth and Bruce whines, shifting underneath him restlessly as his hand digs a little tighter into Jerome’s hair. Jerome chuckles against his mouth and grabs onto the knife again, dragging it against Bruce’s side without warning. 

Jerome can feel Bruce’s breath abruptly catch at the pain before it rushes out of his mouth.

“Jerome,” he rasps, but he sounds more bewildered than he does mad as Jerome pulls away to look at him. His expression flickers—hurt and confusion and _something else_ —as Jerome starts slicking up a few of his fingers with the bright red blood. “You just can’t resist making me bleed, can you?” He sounds kind of dazed. Jerome wonders, hot and covetous, if Bruce could possibly be into some of the same things that Jerome was into; danger and risk and blades and blood, pleasure and pain rolling together into one sensation. 

“You’re even prettier when you’re bleeding,” Jerome tells him. “Makes me reconsider my plan of obliterating you with a cannon, if I’m being honest,” he admits, because watching Bruce’s expression twist really does make him feel a peculiar kind of fondness. “I know it’s supposed to be a grand climax, but I suppose a more subdued, personal touch could be nice. I’ll hold you in my arms and I’ll kiss you as your vision goes dark for the last time ever, darlin’.” It isn’t a normal sentimental promise by any means, but it’s the only promise he can give. 

Bruce licks his lips.

“Have you, perhaps, considered not killing me?”

“After you went and all but demanded an audience? C’mon, Bruce, I want to see what you’re going to do with the extra time that your quick thinking has granted you,” Jerome tells him, and it’s not a lie. He wants to see what Bruce can do when he’s given an inch, wants to see if Bruce can somehow turn it into a mile even with all the odds stacked against him. Jerome pulls away from the cut on Bruce’s side and sits up on his knees, reaching down and watching Bruce watch him.

“That—” Bruce’s voice cracks. He’s so fucking adorable, Jerome can’t wait to hear what he sounds like when Jerome is fucking him. “That seems unsanitary.”

Jerome stifles a laugh, because Bruce can’t seem to look away from Jerome’s red fingers as the first one slides roughly inside. “It’s just a bit of blood. You know what else is going to be inside of me soon, right?” He makes a show of thrusting the finger into himself, back arcing, winking cheekily down at Bruce. “Your pretty cock,” he says lowly. “Which is going to fill me up so nicely, I can tell. It felt perfect in my hand, darlin’. And then once I’ve rendered you delirious and unable to remember anything except for my name you’re going to come inside of me,” he adds breathily, mostly to watch Bruce’s expression change. “Bet I’ll feel it dripping down my thighs later.”

Two of Bruce’s fingers slip through the D ring at his throat and insistently tug Jerome forward, and Jerome doesn’t bother stifling his laughter this time as he leans down, bracing once hand against the floor and hovering inches above Bruce’s openly yearning face. Jerome is tight, and he’s probably going too fast, but he pushes the second finger inside of himself because he’s eager to get on with it and he doesn’t really mind the sting of the stretch. “I’m going to turn your sharp little brain to mush,” he promises, and the next time Bruce tugs on the ring he allows himself to be pulled right where Bruce wants him. 

Bruce’s hand digs into his hair again and his legs twitch between Jerome’s knees like he wants to spread them open. Jerome has a fluttering though that, if Bruce actually is able to do something significant with the time that he’s cleverly gained, the next time that Jerome corners him it’ll be Bruce getting fingered open and filled with cock.

Bruce pants against his mouth, body rocking underneath Jerome even though Jerome is too high up for him to reach and grind against. He’s making sweet, pleading noises without actually saying ‘please’, and if Jerome were nicer he might take pity on him and wrap a hand around him again, but Jerome isn’t that nice. Also, his night or not, he doesn’t exactly have the time to wait for Bruce to recover if he ends up coming before he’s right where Jerome wants him. Jerome shushes him and pets his soft hair with his free hand, and when he pulls back Bruce makes a disappointed noise, as least until the blade of Jerome’s knife presses against his throat. 

He’s so gorgeous in the firelight. He’s so gorgeous underneath Jerome; flushed and starry-eyed and wanting. 

Even if it goes against everything that he’d wanted when he first woke up, Jerome faintly hopes that Bruce’s successful bid for more time enables him to get away with his life, because it really would be a shame to only get to do this once. If everything still goes according to plan, well, at least he’ll have the memories. Jerome pulls out his fingers and spits onto them, pushing them back inside and not letting himself break eye contact with Bruce. Bruce’s hand settles upon Jerome’s wrist again, but the touch is light this time, not tensed up and ready to push Jerome’s hand away at any sign that the knife was going to begin to cut.

“Jerome,” he warbles softly as his bound hand tugs, tugs, tugs. Jerome is certain that he only wants to reach out to him, but Jerome kind of enjoys that Bruce is being denied something that he wants. How often was someone like Bruce denied anything? Let him want more. Let him wish for more. Let him think about this and wonder what he could have been doing if both of his hands were free. “Kiss me?” He licks his lips when Jerome doesn’t budge, eyelashes fluttering in a way that doesn’t read as being deliberately coy. “Please,” he adds, for the first time, and Jerome feels something hot clench inside of him. Bruce laying on his back with a knife to his throat, asking for Jerome to _please_ kiss him; it’s enough to make a man’s resolve crumble into dust.

“One kiss,” Jerome tells him indulgently, leaning in again. “And only because you asked nicely,” he lies.

Bruce murmurs something contentedly against his lips.

After, when Jerome pulls back, he presses his palm against Bruce’s mouth, gaze momentarily caught by the lingering traces of red staining the webbing between his fingers. “C’mon Brucie, I’ve gotta slick you up a little, too,” he urges, and Bruce drags his tongue along the skin laid out before his mouth. The slow, wet drag is pleasant, and the longer he does it the more committed Bruce becomes, dedicatedly lapping until Jerome’s palm feels soaked. “That’s good,” he says under his breath as he pulls his hand away. Bruce’s mouth is shiny, and Jerome kisses him fleetingly as his hand wraps around Bruce’s cock once more before he shifts over top of him.

“Is that enough?” Bruce asks breathlessly. “It doesn’t seem like enough.”

Cute, Jerome internally croons. 

“I’ve had worse,” he says, not untrue, and Bruce’s lips press into a thin line again and his brow furrows. Then his hand slips away from Jerome’s wrist and Jerome finds himself missing the contact for the one second before he notices what Bruce is doing: pressing his palm against his bloody side and slicking it up before reaching down and taking himself in hand. He’s redder than ever, but his eyes are piercing as he looks up at Jerome. He opens his mouth as if he means to say something—maybe even something considerate and nice, which Jerome isn’t used to hearing and doesn’t know if he can stand to hear—and Jerome hastily spits into his own palm, gliding it right against Bruce’s weeping slit and making him shiver and go speechless. 

If you survive tonight, Jerome thinks as he lines himself up with Bruce’s cock, we are definitely doing this again. 

It’s been a while—even when not taking into account the year and a half that he’d been dead—and he’d been hasty with his prep, but watching Bruce’s face as Jerome slowly lowers himself down onto his cock is gratifying enough to dull the ache. Bruce’s bloody palm grips onto Jerome’s wrist again, some of the red staining the white leather of Jerome’s sleeve. Another little bit of Bruce that will be lingering with him as he takes Bruce around the delightfully repulsive carnival that his followers have set up.

“There, this isn’t so bad, is it?” Jerome lifts himself slightly before easing down further. His free hand glides down to Bruce’s bloody side, pressing against the cut incessantly until Bruce winces and jerks. “Gotta hurt you a little more, darlin’, don’t want you coming before I’m done with you.” He pets the wound just like he’d pet Bruce’s hair. His fingers slick up again, though not as much as before as the bleeding has become sluggish, and he greedily watches Bruce’s expression twist. “Just a little more,” he whispers, feeling struck by the sight that Bruce makes below him. Teary eyes and flushed cheeks, lips parted to drag in unsteady breaths as Jerome finally takes all of him. Jerome will be the only person to ever see Bruce like this, and the knowledge makes him feel hot.

He stays still in Bruce’s lap for a few seconds, idly dragging his fingers over Bruce’s side and smearing blood over his ribs. On a whim he traces a grisly heart, mind spinning with ideas of what Bruce would look like with even more red painted across his skin. 

“Jerome.” Bruce’s bound hand is tugging again. He’s squirming underneath Jerome, all cute and desperately needy. His eyes are burning and Jerome wants to pour gasoline on the blaze. 

He lifts himself up on his knees, shallowly rocking in Bruce’s lap, and Bruce’s eyes clench shut as he jerks, instinctively pitching his hips upwards in a way that makes Jerome feel particularly smug. His fingers dig into to cut again and Bruce’s eyes snap open, the cutest little mewl of pain falling from his mouth. Jerome’s mind flickers pleasantly with thoughts of what he’ll sound like if he dies in Jerome’s arms tonight. 

“Eyes on me,” Jerome reminds, not as harshly as he might have if Bruce weren’t so very pretty or so very sweet. 

“Okay,” Bruce agrees, sounding breathless. His body is rigid underneath Jerome, as if he thinks moving will get him stabbed. “Okay. What—what do you want me to do?”

Sweet little naïve virgin. Jerome wishes they had more time, if only so he could violate Bruce further. 

“Move however feels right, darlin’, nothing you do is going to hurt me.” Not nearly as much as Jerome has hurt Bruce, anyway, and wasn’t that a shockingly, awfully sexy thought? “But I’m the one in charge, don’t forget it.”

He rocks in Bruce’s lap, and already Bruce is trembling and shaking underneath him, his hand gripping Jerome’s wrist tight as he arcs his back and his neck as if in some kind of rousing display of submission. Showing off even more of his vulnerable throat, as if reminding Jerome of the fate that just might befall him a few short hours from now if things don’t work out for him. Bruce digs his heels into the floor and arcs again, and he’s so pretty, and he feels good, and Jerome really does want to watch him fall to pieces and the easiest way to make sure that happens is probably to kiss him again.

He leans down and seals their lips together, picking up speed, slamming himself down onto Bruce’s cock and feeling something ignite inside of him at the way Bruce’s body reacts, lurching upwards to meet him on the descent. Bruce moans into his mouth and his hand leaves Jerome’s wrist in order to thread into his hair again, fisting the strands just as tightly as he’d gripped Jerome’s wrist, timidity burnt away. He’s all open-mouthed eagerness; slick tongue and soft lips and pearly teeth that would feel so good digging into the flesh of Jerome’s shoulder. “Jerome,” Bruce cries softly against his mouth between kisses. Jerome moves, and Bruce instinctively follows his lead, and it’s even better than Jerome could have ever imagined it would be. “Jerome, Jerome.”

He’s winding up tight, and he’s taking Jerome with him.

“That’s it, Bruce.” Jerome presses wet, sloppy kisses to his cheeks, licks into his open mouth, playfully takes his bottom lip between his teeth and has a fleeting thought about clamping down hard enough to break skin. “Say my name, darlin’, I love it when you say my name.”

“Jerome,” he keens, and he sounds so close. Jerome pulls back to get a good look at his face. His eyes are glimmering and wet, rimmed in pink; absolutely breathtaking. “Please.”

“Please what, darlin’? Cut you, fuck you, spare you, kiss you?”

“Kiss me.” Bruce actually pulls his hair, and Jerome feels a stab of heat. “Kiss me.”

Jerome sets down his knife, Jerome interlaces his fingers with those of Bruce’s bound hand, Jerome hovers over him and watches his expression shift; desire and hope and wonder. Jerome rolls his hips and Bruce jerks beneath him, whining.

“Jerome, Jerome, Jerome.” His movements are becoming frantic. His hand is pulling Jerome’s hair incessantly. “Please, please, Jerome.”

Jerome leans down, gifting Bruce with a barely-there brush of the lips. Gentle and sweet like the first of their kisses. 

Underneath him Bruce begins to shatter. 

Watching him is spectacular, feeling him shiver and jerk makes Jerome’s heart race. Jerome kisses him again, reaching down to wrap a hand around his own cock and watching heatedly as a tear rolls down the side of Bruce’s face, disappearing into his hair.

Pretty when he bleeds, pretty when he comes, pretty when he cries; and his life is Jerome’s to take. Jerome grinds down onto him and fists his cock and comes across Bruce’s stomach as Bruce begins to thrash underneath him, another tear rolling down his face at how sensitive and wrung out Jerome’s attentions have left him. 

Jerome lifts up on his knees, a dark satisfaction rushing through him like an undercurrent at the sound Bruce makes as his softening cock slips out of him. Jerome leans down to kiss him once more and Bruce’s eyes fall shut and stay shut as Jerome pulls up Bruce’s pants and pulls down his shirt, as he unlatches his belt from around Bruce’s wrist.

As Jerome works Bruce’s breathing becomes faster and shallower, the reality of the situation likely starting to set in again now that their time together like this is obviously coming to an end.

Jerome feels that strange urge to hold him again, but he ignores it. 

He doesn’t ignore the urge to pet his soft hair again, though, brushing sweat-damp curls away from Bruce’s pretty face. 

“You’ve got to scream now, darlin’.” And maybe, if Bruce had been a disappointment, Jerome would have made him scream by giving him another non-fatal wound somewhere that would have hurt him a little more. Instead Jerome goes with the other, less bloody option. “If you don’t, I won’t let you say goodbye to your butler before I have my men kill him.”

Bruce’s eyes snap open immediately, glossy and red-rimmed and blazing like a hellfire that Jerome wouldn’t mind being consumed by.

He screams.


End file.
